The Way By Moonlight
by ChuckMeMondays
Summary: "The dream recurs, and each time, there's nothing he can do to stop it. Again and again and again and again. Every time he closes his eyes, all night long. Over and over. It's all he thinks about. Almost like he's the one going rampant."
1. -Chapter 1: Rampant-

The Way By Moonlight

By: ChuckMeMondays

Disclaimer: I don't own Halo, the Chief, Cortana, or Dr Halsey. Space Marines didn't seem like a good investment at the time. And now I'm regretting it.

Summary: "The dream recurs, and each time, there's nothing he can do to stop it. Again and again and again and again. Every time he closes his eyes, all night long. Over and over. It's all he thinks about. Almost like he's the one going rampant."

* * *

"A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world." -Oscar Wilde.

* * *

**-Chapter 1: Rampant-**

John has been having dreams.

In the dreams, Cortana is standing in front of him, and she's tall. And she's so_ solid._ What's the word?_ Corporeal._

"Oh, I'm the strangest thing you've seen all day?"

His lips quirk, hidden in his helmet. Cortana.

"So how do we get out of here?"

"I'm not going with you this time."

"What?"

She split herself in two to save him.

He's not a man of many words, but this time he has trouble finding even three.

"No. That's not- We go together."

She sounds sad and resigned. He doesn't like it. He wants her to sass at him.

"I am not leaving you here."

And then, the way she says his name, it makes him think, maybe...

In a miracle, she reaches out a hand and touches him.

"I've waited so long to do that."

He's never been so ashamed. He can't meet her eyes.

"I was my job to take care of you."

But she's going to stay behind, anyway.

He says her name, asks her please. He wants to ask her if he can stay here with her, but he already knows what she would tell him. He wants to ask her to let him try, but he knows that if she says so, there isn't a way.

Futilely, he tells her, "Wait."

Her voice is a whisper as she fades into electric blue code and darkness.

He wakes, breathing erratic, staring into the darkness of his rack.

He misses her. Misses her more than he's ever allowed himself to miss anything or anyone, ever. It was a mistake to get attached, he thinks viciously to himself for a moment. Except that it wasn't. It was the best thing he ever did. He can't regret it. He can't regret her.

But there is one thing he does regret.

* * *

He's a fool, he thinks when he's looking at the stars that don't seem to shine the way they used to or at his plate as he sits alone in the mess, the food like ash in his mouth. He'd known how she felt. She hadn't even tried to hide it once her rampancy really started to set in. He remembers how her voice sounded.

"It worked. You did it. Just like you always do."

And he hadn't even told her that she did it, too. That they were a team. He hadn't even given her that much.

He could have reached for her. But he didn't.

He is a machine, he thinks at himself, a derisive expression on his normally stoic face. His humanity was quashed long ago.

* * *

"It's already done."

The dream recurs, and each time, there's nothing he can do to stop it. Again and again and again and again. Every time he closes his eyes, all night long. Over and over. It's all he thinks about. Almost like he's the one going rampant.

Then, one night, the dream changes.

"We were supposed to take care of each other. And we did."

Instead of pleading, he does what he should have done all along. He unlocks his helmet. Her inhumanly beautiful eyes look up at him. He gathers her into his arms and kisses her.

Every time, just as her hands reach up to him, he wakes up. He can feel the phantom of her lips icy cold on his, and he's alone.

"Welcome home, John."

He dreams the augmented dream again. And again. And again.

One night when he wakes up, Cortana pulled from him by cruel reality, and he makes himself a promise, though it doesn't make any sense: Next time.

* * *

John is tired. He hasn't been sleeping well. He can't remember being so exhausted in all his life. His armor has never felt so heavy. Or maybe that's just him. He feels weighed down, like an anchor is chained to his heart.

His walk to the med bay after the summons is slow and measured. He feels like he has to focus on every single step, every single breath to keep moving forward.

The doors swish open almost cheerily. He would be annoyed at them if it wasn't so fruitless. He scans the room and sees Doctor Halsey - who he hadn't known was aboard - speaking to a woman on a bed. He can't see the other woman's face, but she has bobbed hair so black it's almost blue and she's wearing a thin white hospital gown.

"Doctor," he says, getting Halsey's attention.

Both women look at him, the one on the bed turning her head.

He meets her eyes. He goes absolutely still. His vision tunnels. He stops breathing for a moment. No one says anything.

He takes a halting step forward and then stops again. He tries to speak, but the only thing he can get out is "C-".

The woman on the bed gives a shaky smile - one he's seen before.

"All right. This time around, I probably am the strangest thing you've seen all day."

If he had any doubt, it's gone when she speaks, her voice the same as the echo in his head night and day.

Anyone else would start hyperventilating. Instead, he reaches up to unlock his helmet as he strides to the side of her bed. He pulls the helmet from his head and drops it on the floor. It thumps heavily on the grey carpet and rolls away a few feet before coming to a halt against the metal legs of the bed with a soft clang, but he can't hear it. There's blood pounding in his ears. Her chest is rising and falling as she breathes. _Breathes._

"What are you doing?" she asks.

He doesn't answer. He reaches for her. He places a hand on either side of her face, cupping it, bends at the waist, and lowers his face to hers.

He kisses her.

It's not at all smooth. He's never kissed a woman before. The last time he kissed anyone, it was his mother on the cheek and he was six years old.

But she doesn't seem to mind that he lacks technique. Probably because she doesn't have any, either. All he knows is that her mouth is warm and unbelievably soft. She raises one hand and loops it around the back of his head. Her fingers scratch at the short hair at the nape of his neck.

After another moment, he pulls back a few inches. He looks into her eyes, bright blue rimmed in navy, as they've always been.

"Cortana."

She smiles, eyes filled with tears even he can identify as happy.

"John."

He slides one hand to her shoulder and brushes her dark hair back behind her ear with the other. He doesn't think he's ever made so gentle a gesture in his life.

Then his grip on her shoulder tightens slightly. "Never again," he promises.

If she was anyone else, she'd have to ask what he meant. But she's her and she knows him. This smile is brilliant, her tone familiarly cheeky.

"Whatever you say, Chief."


	2. -Chapter 2: Regret-

**-Chapter 2: Regret-**

John's dreams stick with him.

"I'm not going with you this time."

When he wakes, he has to take a few moments to remind himself of what is real. He looks at his hands, then at the clock next to his rack, and then at the comm terminal on the far wall.

It's been a week since she's been back, and his thoughts are all over the place. It's been strangely awkward between them since that moment in the med bay. Unresolved.

He gets up.

He waffles for a moment, which is out of character for him, finally telling himself to get it together, Chief.

Now that he's committed, his fingers are sure on the touch bad as he calls up Cortana's quarters. The computer bleep-bloops at him, telling him it is chiming in her room.

"Chief? Is everything all right?"

His eyes close in relief for a second, as if he'd been afraid that the whole thing had been a hallucination. He's silent for so long, reveling in reality and then unsure what to say, that she calls for him again.

"John?"

He clears his throat.

"I'll be there in seven minutes."

She doesn't ask how he knows how long, exactly, it will take for him to cross the space between them.

"All right."

The comm goes dead.

He dresses swiftly, pulling on a clean black UNSC T-shirt and his uniform pants over the underwear he had worn to bed. He ties his boots with quick efficiency, lacing, looping and knotting them to regulation perfection. He has to restrain himself from stopping to glance in the mirror before he walks out the door. He has to retain some dignity.

She opens the door the second he knocks and steps back to welcome him in. Even though this was his idea, he hesitates before entering.

She touches the panel next to the door to shut it behind him, and he sweeps his eyes over her little quarters, unable to turn and face her. There's a comm panel against the left wall, a clean desk against the back, and her bunk against the right wall, made up with standard-issue white sheets and a blue blanket. The room is as bare as his, with none of the knick-knacks that other soldiers carry with them - a family photo, a stuffed animal, a poster of a centerfold, a fine china tea cup that belonged to someone's grandmother. He thinks to himself that she doesn't have any of those things. She's brand new to this world.

He doesn't have that excuse.

She steps around him and sits on her bed. He considers her, wearing a Marine green USNC tank top and black shorts that show off her toned legs. She's so much like she used to be and so vastly different.

She waits for him to speak. It's a long time before he decides what to say.

"I'm sorry," is what he finally goes with.

She sighs. He's still somewhat taken aback at the rush of air from her lungs. Cortana has lungs. He wonders if it's as strange to her as it is to him.

"Come sit with me," she says as she pats the bed next to her.

The concept of sitting on the same bed as Cortana is about 50% terrifying and 50% wonderful, and again, John hesitates before finally doing as she asks. His back is perfectly straight as he sits next to her, his hands folded in his lap.

"At ease, Chief," she grins at him, and he can't help but grin back a little. He lets himself relax a little. Then his smile fades.

"I shouldn't have left you."

She places a small, warm hand over his folded fingers. He studies at it. Her nails are painted purple with little golden sparkles. He has never seen such a thing.

"I didn't leave you a choice." Her voice is soft and soothing. It's almost like it was when it came from the speakers in his helmet. "I did it on purpose. I didn't want the rampancy to kill me."

He considers her words and thinks about what he would have wanted if he had been her.

"I shouldn't have left you the way I did," he amends, looking straight ahead at a blank bulkhead.

She lifts her hand from his and he mourns the loss of it before he starts when she places the same hand on his jaw, guiding his face toward hers while she twists to meet him in the eyes. Her skin is soft and incredibly real.

"I don't regret anything," she says.

"I do," he responds.

Her eyes are sad. He doesn't like it.

"Every choice we made brought us here. There are worse places."

He considers. It's a fairly well-adjusted perspective.

She stands. He especially doesn't like that. Then she kneels in front of him, those painted fingers going to his boots.

"What are you-" he questions as he reaches down to stop her.

She presses a slim finger against his lips, effectively shutting him up. "Shh." He doesn't move as she unknots the laces and pulls the boots off one-by-one. She stands again, and he watches her closely.

She pushes against his shoulders. He doesn't budge. She rolls her eyes.

"If you're not going to let a girl get her beauty rest in peace," she says, "you can at least do her the courtesy of letting her get it with a friend."

He stares at her, still a little uncomprehending. She can't possibly be suggesting what he thinks she is.

"I get against the wall," she adds. "I always feel like I'm going to fall out when I'm on the edge," she confides.

When she shoves at him again, he lies down on his back on the outside of the bed, every muscle in his body tense. She climbs over him, her body brushing against his in a way that makes him hold his breath, and then lies down, back against the wall, facing him. He turns his head to look at her. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets her body relax.

There is silence for two full minutes.

"Cortana."

"Hmm?" she asks, not opening her eyes.

"I don't want to be your friend."

That would have sounded harsh coming from most people, but she knows what he means. She opens her eyes, smiles at him, and then scoots closer to him, snuggling against his side, forcing his arm up and around her as she rests her head on his chest.

"Sleep now, John. We'll think of a better word later," she says.

Her body pressed against his is a jarringly unfamiliar sensation, but he finds he likes it. With effort, he lets his muscles relax, too, and goes to sleep.

When his internal clock wakes him in at 0530, both his arms are wrapped firmly around her. He hasn't had a single dream.


End file.
